Mercy. Still spiraling
with this. And and
the the. Or I mean to say
slump. A Nob Hill
excavation. Not a star,
movie nor lump, to
show me the way.
Which is here. Eating
away, albeit mild. An
abandon. A row of books
reflected in the window.
A dark finish. I’m broke.
No lights wrapped around
the top floor. Yellow
and blue like under
my skin until the
needle. I never can
watch. Being. Tried
the night. Cannot.
Contentment
and bored. He
walks out the fog
and my heart gives way,
looking. Propelled.
I like my home when
daylight. The weather
while in Lisbon.
And mercy.
